


where I permit forgiveness

by iridescentrey



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Domestic Fluff, F/M, I'm literally just vibing with this idk what's going on, Look this might get a little weird don't look at me, Mentions of child neglect, Miscommunication, New Relationship, Rimming, Safe to Read if You're Triggered by Pregnancy, Soft Dom Ben, Tantric Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, anorgasmia, body image issues, let's get Rey some self-love juice, with a pinch of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentrey/pseuds/iridescentrey
Summary: There's only one thing that stands in the way of Rey's budding relationship with Ben - she can't orgasm.(But maybe that's not such a bad thing.)
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 25
Kudos: 64
Collections: House Dadam A-Z Kink Collection, Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for House Dadam A-Z Kink Collection as **T is for Tantric Sex**. The theme itself will show up more in later chapters. 
> 
> Loosely inspired by @reylo_prompts prompt: "Rey has trouble getting off, and Ben has to work harder at it. He’s so patient and kind with her and is willing to spend the whole night making her come no matter how long it takes because she deserves to feel good."
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm in no way a medical professional, and as much as I tried to research the issues involved, there might still be inaccuracies!

The only person Rey has to blame for her disappointment is herself.

Not Rose, with her well-intentioned, but ultimately pointless advice and encouragement. Not her OB-GYNs, for finding absolutely no underlying health conditions to her diagnosis. Not the internet forums, for their hopeful assurances that things tend to get much easier once you find "the right person", someone that will make you feel safe enough to let go of the constant worry about reaching the destination. She certainly can't blame Ben, not for his sweet attentiveness and patience and all the effort in the world to make her comfortable with him. Not one of them is at fault here. Just her and her unreasonably inflated expectations.

It might make her look naive in hindsight, but she really did believe things might be different this time around, with him. She wanted them to be, too hopeful to acknowledge that tiny murmur of her cynical self at the root of her brain. Why would her body, after twenty-three years, all of a sudden decide to stop making her feel like there's something broken within her, even with no medical proof of that actually being the case?

It's not that she hasn't _ever_ managed to bring herself to an orgasm. She must've, at some point. At least, that's what she thinks. The ghost of pleasure is nothing but a hazy recollection from the times she'd barely started to explore her body, a memory so vague it might as well be a fantasy. She must've done it, though, to have that unachievable goal in her mind that she knows is possible to reach. One she always manages to miss, no matter how many times she tries. And it's not like she hasn't tried. She must've scoured close to fifty google pages in search of a magical solution that might unwind whatever blockages clog her brain; she'd tried it all. Relaxation techniques, ridiculous meditation music and aromatherapy included, kegel exercises, all kinds of porn she could think of, no porn, fantasies, toys, no toys, more stimulation, less stimulation… None of it ever worked. As soon as a hopeful spark appeared in her mind and the pleasure in her lower belly began to grow into something more than a simmer, as soon as she got just to the edge of that precipice, her nerves became raw and too overworked to keep going. Then it all faded away. The same thing, with a slightly steeper road, happened whenever she'd attempted to climax with someone else.

It's not that she doesn't enjoy it. She does; a lot, in fact. But for all the spiel of appreciating the journey through scenic routes, she can't quite quell the cold pang in her stomach whenever the disappointment in her partner's eyes bubbles through the frustration, can't ignore the helplessness that seeps through her own exhaustion after long hours of fruitless attempts that make her crave nothing but sleep. Most of the times, she'd found, it's easier to keep it to herself; easier to let herself play-act for a few seconds than to explain all of her struggles, easier to fake it than face that same old disappointment and pity, easier to just pretend the issue doesn't exist than to listen to all of the _You're joking_ sand _I can't imagine living like this_ and _I feel so fucking bad for you_ s.

But pretending in front of Ben was the last thing she wanted; just as cold disappointment was the last thing she would ever imagine feeling on the first morning of absolute surety that he _loves_ her. 

It was so easy to lose herself in it at the beginning, to forget it was supposed to lead anywhere at all. She would gladly spend hours wrapped tight and secure in his arms, marveling at the uninhibited, incessant warmth that shone through the disbelief in his eyes from the very second he realized he wasn't alone in how he felt. (She'd followed him when he tried to run, after he blurted out why exactly he could barely stand all her meaningless attempts at dating. She let herself into his bedroom, pulled his face out of the cocoon of his palms, stroked his hair and murmured against his temple until he was ready to look at her and see the truth for himself.) She'd gladly spend hours peppering his face with kisses, just to melt that expression into complete acceptance. She'd gladly give away her days to ingrain the way he tastes into her memory. 

That was the first time she realized she _could_ focus entirely on the journey, lose herself to the graze of his long fingers in her hair, to the molten warmth of their mouths meeting, to the slow grins of her hips against his. To his incredulous chuckles between the small, helpless noises of pleasure that ripped out of his chest as he pulled her impossibly closer, her lips leisurely tracing his pulse point, fingers scrambling for purchase in the fabric of his sweater. Before she knew it, they were safe and buried beneath the blankets, nothing but shallow breaths, hushed whispers, and wet noises of their mouths slanting against one another. Before she knew it, with time impossibly stretched out and clothes gone or pushed aside, she was pulling him inside her; first his fingers (and _God,_ how he had sobbed into the crook of her neck when he finally felt how ready she was for him), then his cock.

Every second was worth it, every moment of awkward fumbling and wrong angles, every pinch and frustrated huff when he couldn't work himself as deep as she needed him. They pushed the blankets aside with shaking hands once it became difficult to breathe, his hips grinding into hers just right, making her keen into the damp skin of his cheek. Just like that, she forgot it couldn't possibly last forever; she can't blame him for the three little words that broke the spell, words perfectly expected in situations like this. _Are you close?_

He tried to laugh it off when he finally spilled inside her and she didn't follow suit. Between labored breaths and her quiet assurances, he blamed it on his stamina, blamed it on not enough foreplay, fingers already asking permission to slide back inside her. She wished she told him he didn't have to. That they could've stopped right there, and it would have been perfect. That she could hold him close and watch him let go hundreds of times a day, listen to the beautiful muffled moans _she_ had coaxed out of him, see his features contort in pleasure. She can't blame him for asking the same from her. So she let him try, graze her overstimulated flesh, first with his fingers, then with his mouth. He held her hand so sweetly, thumb brushing idle circles on her knuckles to comfort her as her hips buckled under the onslaught of his caresses. 

She couldn't do it to him. Couldn't handle seeing the love and earnest eagerness to please her turn into disappointment in his eyes, a sentiment that no doubt would show if she did what she wanted to do; if she tangled her fingers in his hair, gently pried him off of her and asked him to stop. She couldn't see his face fall at the sharp realization he'd been wasting his time, that nothing he could have possibly done would ever be enough to make her climax. And he would blame himself for it, she knows. 

She couldn't do it to him. So she did what she'd always done. 

He seemed satisfied enough with her act; stayed with his cheek against her stomach until her breathing evened out, pet her flanks and planted soft kisses on her hip bones and abdomen until her arousal dissipated into drowsiness. Held her all night after she'd come back to bed from the bathroom, traced abstract patterns on her back.

It was foolish to hope things would change so suddenly, that she would have a new option to choose from aside from lying and being a disappointment. She tries to comfort herself, to recall the events of the previous night as she forces herself to get up from between warm and slightly soiled sheets, the spot beside her already vacant. Nothing quite erases the bottomless pit in her stomach.

. 

Not much changes in most aspects, she finds. It's the same familiar routine that has made her feel at home for all these months – her all sleep-mussed and yawning, clad in an oversized t-shirt and her favorite panda slippers. Him – fresh from a shower and wide awake, the smell of cocoa pancakes already prevalent in the air. 

The same old pictures tacked to the fridge and flower-painted plates on the table. A brand new morning kiss, tinged with a second of sweet hesitation. The same easy companionship and a way to say _hello_ with a half-hug. A brand new ache between her thighs that makes her shiver at the memory. 

The same single heartbeat skipped at his smile.

"You don't have to show off as much anymore, you know," she tells him as he shuffles the frying pan to flip the pancake in the air. "You already wooed me."

"Better safe than sorry" With an adorable blush at the tips of his ears, he deposits it on a plate set next to the stove.

It's easier than breathing to be with him, to banter and drink tea, to sit in comfortable silence and munch on fresh blueberries and banana slices covered in whipped cream and cinnamon. To revel in the luxury of delicious food she didn't have to move a finger to put on her plate. Wane morning sun rays begin their climb over the neighboring buildings as they eat, the brick walls they've shared for all those months painted warmer colors. It's home. She moans quietly as she takes the next bite, spice-tinged blueberries burst on her tongue. 

"It used to drive me batshit when you did that." He stares at her, cheeks flushed pink, as if he hasn't already familiarized himself with numerous variations of those very noises. "I always wondered if you just did it on purpose to mess with me."

"It wasn't on purpose, you're just too good of a cook. It's like a compulsion, I can't help it." 

It's only when their plates are well and truly empty, her own licked clean from the remainders of the whipped cream, that she notices something's wrong. It's easy to detect when he wants to say something but doesn't, like a wrong chord in a song, or a loose cog in a machine. He hesitates just a second too long before grabbing her plate, tension sipping from behind a smile that's been honest and bright all morning. He knows she can see, he has to; knows they've always had an almost preternatural ability to see right through one another's masks.

She hates that so little is enough to kick-start catastrophic scenarios in her head, but it is. He loads the dishwasher, she stashes the whipped cream and the remaining fruit back into the fridge. He doesn't say a word, and in silence that just minutes ago was perfectly comfortable she hears everything he might not know how to say to her. _Last night was a mistake. I slept on it and I think we're better off as friends. Please, can we just forget about it?_

She's not quite sure what she'd do if he said that.

On a usual lazy Saturday like this one, they would spend most of their day together. Go grocery shopping if they were running low on anything, just to have an excuse to walk side by side, shoulders brushing. They'd cook dinner, Rey's contribution limited to following simple instructions for the fear of turning the recipe into something completely inedible. (Or filling the kitchen with smoke, like she may or may not have done a couple times in attempts to manage the oven.) They'd lounge on the sofa, read in companionable silence, watch Netflix, or just talk. Today, they could use their newly acquired knowledge, lie down and simply hold each other, explore all the ways they could make the other shiver with a soft touch. A few stolen kisses here and there, their fingers laced together. They wouldn't even have to have sex again. Right now, any of those options sound good. Sound preferable to anything he might want to say, anything that might put a hindrance, or at least a bitter tang she's not quite sure she'd ever get rid of into their well-tried routine. "Ben?" 

"Hm?" 

She finishes wiping the table clean and plops back into her chair. "You know I can tell."

"What?"

"When you do that. Just tell me." 

His back immediately tenses up, shoulders drop down with a sigh. Soft pings sound out as he switches through the dishwasher programs. 

"Now you're scaring me a bit." 

"What?" He turns to her with a huff, fingers brushing through his half-damp waves. "No, don't be scared. I wasn't even going to say anything, it's just-" 

"What?" 

"Nothing."

"It must be _something_ if you're upset." She tries to listen to him, to will her wild heartbeat to slow down, but it doesn't make much of a difference. He joins her at the table with a heavy sigh and a tick on his lower lid that only awakens when he's nervous, or angry. "Is this about last night?" 

"Yeah." 

Her heart sinks at the response. She almost gets up, almost tells him she'd rather not know, to keep whatever he has to say to himself; she must be as easy to read as an open book. His hand immediately shoots out to envelop her own in a warm, comforting touch, her dainty fingers dwarfed by the size of his. It hardly makes her want to flee any less.

"No, listen, it's not… bad, okay? Whatever you're thinking." They fit so perfectly together, their hands. His fingers slide in between hers like they belong there. "I've no second thoughts if that's what you're worried about." Her shoulders slump in relief the tiniest bit. "You have no idea how glad I am I don't have to constantly pretend in front of you." _Pretend_. Like she has been. "It was fucking exhausting. So I just- I think I wanna be honest now. I want us both to be."

She wants to tell him, she does; and for a moment it seems like she could do just that. Take a deep breath and trust the warm acceptance in his chocolate brown eyes that never fail to pry her open in the gentlest of ways. But she can't help but wonder, what if? What if it's too much for him and he backs out? What if he doesn't, and she'll have to see that same stifled disappointment in his eyes every time they make love? 

"I just wanted you to know that-" His other hand wanders to her shoulder, grazes the back of her neck, the touch eliciting shivers down her spine. "To me, it was perfect. And I hoped it was mutual."

The questioning lilt in his voice makes her stomach drop again. "It was. It was more than perfect, I-" 

"I could tell you faked it."

And there it is.

The sinking feeling turns to cold. Has she really been so obvious? Over time, she thought she'd perfected it; been subtle enough, always hid her face in a pillow, or behind her arm, or in a crook of her partner's neck, anything to hide her expression. She tried to imagine the feeling to imitate it the best she could, even paid special attention to more natural-looking porn for visual cues. None of her partners ever said a thing, not one person. Had they all known, and were simply too embarrassed to tell her? Had they even cared?

His hand rests warm and solid at the nape of her neck, thumb rubbing the skin in effort to comfort her. "Look, I'm not angry. Or anything even remotely like that. It's just-" True to his words, there's no anger in his eyes, no pity. Just deep concern; and more than a hint of hurt. "Why?"

For a long while, she does nothing but fight to keep her tears from spilling over. "It's complicated."

"Did you-" He sighs. "I don't know, did you wanna stop?" _Sort of._ "Did I do something wrong?"

"You didn't."

"I thought it felt nice, what I was doing. You said it was good."

"It was," she repeats like a broken record. It really was, more than good; she can still recall the shivers that ran down her spine, the languid warmth that spread ever so slowly down her limbs and made her toes curl at every brush of his fingers around her clit once he got the hang of the exact way she likes to be touched. It was more than his technique, _he_ had made her hungry; made her want to pull him closer, mold herself around him and map every single square inch of his skin with her own. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I know I'm not exactly experienced." A pang of sadness in his tone makes her insides contort. "I know I have a lot to learn, but pretending everything's going well when it's not isn't gonna help. Tell me if something doesn't work for you next time, please."

She knew this would happen, that he would blame himself. She was fully prepared for the issues, too, for a few awkward bumps into wrong places, for patient instructions and demonstrations he might need, for the lack of stamina. He seemed so shy when he mumbled it against her neck, tips of his ears flushed red and a tremble in his voice; that none of his dates or budding relationships ever amounted to much. But she didn't mind, she'd found. Not with him. With the earnest enthusiasm and curious sparks in his eyes, with steady hands she would trust with her life. With all the focus on her pleasure above his own, with all the praise that almost made her feel undeserving of being so utterly _loved_. And now, even after all this effort, he still takes the blame on himself; shoulders slumped, heart open, and an expression of a kicked puppy. It's the last thing he deserves.

"I don't know, did you think I'd get bored down there if it took you a bit longer to come? 'Cause I don't think that's possible." His hand drifts back to her own, fingers shaking as they nervously stroke her knuckles. "And it's not your fault I turned out to be such a one minute fucking wonder. Not that I expected otherwise, but- I wouldn't just leave you like that. I don't know if other guys have but I wouldn't."

Just like that, one too many of his sweet words, and her vision glosses over with tears. It doesn't matter what she tells him. It doesn't matter how willing he is to learn, how patient he is with her, how many techniques he will try out. He will never find something that works. He'll just waste his time on her, just like everyone else before him. It might take him a little bit longer to realize, but he will, sooner or later.

"No, hey, don't- Rey. Don't cry, look at me." She doesn't. Still, he doesn't let her go. "It's not that big of a deal, I didn't even want to say anything. I just needed you to know you don't ever have to do that, okay? Not with me. We'll figure it out."

"It's not-" The rest of the words lodge in her throat. _It's not gonna work. Nothing will._

For a moment, he just looks at her, their hands laced together as if the way he held her was her only lifeline. When she doesn't continue, he pulls her to him, coaxes her to sit on his lap with a quiet "Come here". Like that, it would seem she could take any adversity coming at her, anything at all. Anything except the fear of pushing him away, it seems. "I have this theory, but please, be honest. Whatever the answer is. I still want to be with you. I don't mind. We can work around it."

She nods into the crook of his neck, tries to calm herself with the scent she finds there, warm skin, a note of his favorite body wash, mint and tea tree, and the tiniest hint of sweat. 

"I know that some people-" Palms flat on her spine, he pulls her closer to him. "Even though they're not exactly… repulsed, they don't really enjoy having sex. They still do it for the sake of their partners sometimes, they just don't get aroused all that much." 

At that, she leans back to look at his face, finds nothing but openness there. "What?"

"I've lived for thirty-two years without it. And it was incredible, but I'd rather have you without-" 

"Ben, I'm not asexual."

"Oh. Okay. Was it like… painful, for you? Is that-" She shakes her head. "Okay."

It starts to get to her, the scrutiny of his eyes. It would be so easy to just tell him, to whisper it against his neck as he holds her, just so she wouldn't have to look into his eyes. To trust that he wouldn't leave, even if she did disappoint him. 

"You can tell me what's wrong," he whispers, voice gentle and soothing, as if she's a frantic animal, torn off-leash and terrified. "It's just me." 

"I can't do it," she blurts out into his shirt before rational thoughts get in the way and tie her tongue again.

"Now you're the one that's scaring me."

"I just told you, I can't do it. I can't come. I've had issues with that all my life."

He doesn't tense up against her wild heartbeat, his hands don't stop the gentle ministrations. After a few seconds, it almost seems as if she'd never told him at all, only imagined opening her mouth and blurting one of her biggest secrets at him. "Jesus Christ, Rey." Her eyes prickle with more tears, a few of them have already made tracks down her flushed cheeks. "Look at me." She does. There's no pity in his eyes, no hurt, not even a tiniest bit of disappointment. Just relief, concern, and more of that breathless adoration she can never get enough of laced with disbelief. "This- I don't mind in the least, I promise." She takes a moment to wipe her cheeks dry. "I just wish I'd known earlier."

A deep sigh escapes her lungs. "I thought-" She slumps against him again, all the tension suddenly crumbling into relief. Momentarily, her fears seem almost ridiculous. "I thought you'd be disappointed in me."

"It's not your fault, why the hell would I be disappointed in you?" She doesn't deserve him. "We'll get there, okay? We'll take all the time you need. You can show me how you do it sometime, if you want. "

She pulls away, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "How I do what?" 

"Get yourself there on your own."

A cold weight drops in her stomach. "I just told you I don't." Her voice wavers through the tears again. "I can't do it, it doesn't work."

For a moment, he just looks at her. "Wait." Then, something in his eyes morphs into what she knows too well. Shock. Disbelief. "You mean, ever? Even when you-" She shakes her head, sight averted from his. "Have you-" 

"Don't." The tone of her voice rises for a brief second, before she can get it back under control. "I tried literally everything. I've seen like four doctors. They all said the same thing."

"What did they say?" 

She looks up, just try her best to keep the tears from flowing down her cheeks. "That I'm anorgasmic. And I don't check out on any of the usual physical causes and my hormones are all fine." She sniffles. "They say it might be psychological, but they're not sure."

"Okay." Still, he persists. "Could it be your birth control, or-" 

"I was like that way before I even went on it." When his confusion doesn't ease, she continues. "It's like I get overstimulated before I can come. It just doesn't happen."

Of course he would assume those things. That there must be a clear-cut reason. That it's just when she's with other people. That's the most common issue, isn't it? Everything works perfectly when you're on your own, with nothing but your thoughts and well-practiced movements and all the time in the world to let yourself go; it only becomes a problem with the pressure from the outside, with partners you don't trust as much as yourself, partners with expectations. At least, that's what she'd read; none of which applies to her. Even the sparse articles she's found about her exact issue wouldn't help. None of the wine-induced relaxation, none of the patience, none of the fantasies. It would all end up the same, either with her getting too overstimulated and frustrated to go on, or getting bored and falling asleep. There's something wrong with her, well and truly wrong. And that's exactly how he looks at her, like he can see it.

Even him. 

None of the elongated seconds could quite wipe the shock off of his features. 

"Looks like you got yourself a broken girlfriend." Her voice is broken in a way she never heard herself sound. She shrugs and disentangles herself from his embrace. "I don't know, congratulations."

She doesn't turn around as he calls her name. 

. 

It doesn't take long for him to find her, to crawl into the warm cocoon of blankets she'd nestled herself in, still doused in a ghosting of their scent. He wraps her safe in his arms and just holds her, wordless. Lets her cry out all the tension and fears and heartache. Plants mindless kisses at the nape of her neck, as constant and sweet as ever. 

"You're not broken," he murmurs against her ear, only after a long while. 

"Right."

"You're not, I don't ever wanna hear you talk about yourself like that." 

"Then why can't I-"

"Doesn't matter. It doesn't make you broken." He pulls her closer, lets her turn around in his arms and nuzzle his chest, the fabric of his shirt growing wet with tears. 

She doesn't want him to let her go. Doesn't want him to see her any differently, or act any differently if they do end up having sex again. She can almost see it, the worry and hesitation in his movements as he touches her, the hurt he wouldn't be able to conceal for long as she fails to come yet again, no matter how much time he spends trying to coax it out of her. (What's the point to even touch her at all, they'd told her?) The frustration he'd exude every time he'd have to hold himself back, every time he'd be too much for her to handle. The tension that would grow stronger with every day of forcing himself to keep it all in until it gets too much. Until he inevitably blurts out he can't do it anymore.

She doesn't want it to end. Not the unbridled adoration he somehow still holds for her, not the potted plants and blanket forts and movie nights, not the moments they're so well in tune they could finish each other's sentences. His sweet gestures; like every time he picks her up when she gets embarrassingly drunk, brings her a warm compress and all the sweets she could hope for when she wails from menstrual pain, or buys her meds and makes her chicken broth when she gets sick. The way he's there for her, whether she chokes on laughter, smears her ridiculous attempt at makeup with tears or chews with her mouth open. His dry humor most of their friends never find half as funny as she does, or awkward deliveries of feelings too raw to handle; his silent protectiveness, or selflessness so automatic it almost infuriates her. The way he listens to anything at all she might have to say, eyes wide and receptive, like every word she utters _mattered_. Be it ridiculous dreams that wake her at 4 am, dumb anecdotes, or things she could barely talk about in daylight.

She doesn't want him to let her go; not because of something she has absolutely no control over making them incompatible in bed, not because of something that has already hurt her self-esteem more times than she could count. She pulls him closer while she still can, presses her ear to his chest in search of his heartbeat. 

"I can literally hear your brain mulling over this," he whispers into her hair.

"I just know it made you feel like shit." It's so easy to start talking, to let it all out into his warm embrace. "And you're gonna feel like shit and blame yourself every time you try to make me come and I can't. And I don't want you to stop wanting me. Because of this."

"Rey." He scoots down to her level to bring their faces closer, cradles her jaw in his palm just firmly enough to keep her from turning away and hiding from him. Like that, she can see all of the moles she longed to trace for so long, the slightly chapped skin of his full lips, the spot on his chin he must've nicked while shaving. Breath warm on her face, eyes intent on her, as if they asked for permission to see what's behind her own. "I know I rarely say things. Especially if I think they're obvious." A pang of affection tightens her chest. "But I care about you, very much. You're kind of my favorite person around. I don't feel any different about you just because there's an… issue with our sex life." He chuckles as if he could hardly believe they even have one in the first place. There are moments she can't either, moments it all seems too good to be true. "I mean, It barely sounds like an issue to me. I mean-" He pauses, mortification creeping into his expression. "Wait, that sounded better in my head, I'm not trying to diminish-" 

She brushes the pads of her fingers against his lips to silence him. They've had their fair share of misunderstandings, just like that. Good intentions wrapped in words too easy to misinterpret, her thoughts running wild and painting all of the worst scenarios. "I know what you mean, Ben." 

"But?" But he doesn't know that. She wants to believe him but he can't know that; that it won't become an issue, somewhere down the line. "Listen." Gently, he moves her palm down. "Does it… make it unpleasant for you? Does it make you not want to-" 

"No. It's- no, not at all. I want to."

"Alright."

"It's just that- I think it could be enough for me? I don't see what the big deal is if I'm being honest." Her voice almost breaks. "Sex still feels great, even if it doesn't lead anywhere. I still like it. But it's like… Everyone's telling me I'm enjoying it the wrong way, you know? That it's the lesser way somehow, that there's so much I'm missing out on. Or that there's no point to even do it at all if it just keeps getting too much so fast and I can't finish properly. And they get mad when none of their techniques work on me and it just makes me feel so-"

"You say you're broken one more time, I'm going to have to do something I really don't want to." She can't help but smile at the familiar glint of mischief through the compassion in his eyes.

She gives a weak sniffle and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "I'm horrified."

"You should be." For a moment, he just looks at her intently. "I'll eat all your pop tarts."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would. Especially the blueberry ones. I'll sacrifice my taste buds."

"You wouldn't."

"Wanna bet?" 

Their foreheads brush, the air he exhales sweet in her lungs and light in her head. "I'll just buy more."

"I'll eat them all." 

"I hate you a bit sometimes," she whispers with no real malice. 

At that, he shifts ever so slightly to slant his lips against hers, just because he can. Warm, slow press, with a barest hint of moisture.

He pulls away all too soon, settles them close enough for their noses to brush against one another, lips millimeters apart. "You know it's bullshit what they've been saying to you, right?" he whispers. "I'm in no way an expert after one night, but… saying there's only one solid way to enjoy sex sounds stupid as hell to me." 

She shrugs at his words and hugs him tighter to her, their legs entwined through the blanket she'd cocooned herself in.

"I just want us both to have a good time. I want to make you feel good, now that you let me." His gaze is on hers again, just as open and earnest. The way his voice wavers around a tentative smile makes her heart clench; the way he talks about it, too. As if it were a privilege, not a nuisance or necessity. "I'm not gonna lie, you shocked me there a little bit. I've never really heard about women having issues like this. To that extent. But-" There it is again, the adoration. His chocolate brown eyes glisten with it. "I seriously don't think I mind if you don't. If as good as it gets doesn't include an orgasm for you, then so be it."

For a moment, he just holds her, fingers skimming through the soft hairs at the nape of her neck. She lets her eyelids drift shut, lets her tired thoughts slow down to a tentative belief that he could be right, that it doesn't have to be an issue. That she _could_ ask him to stop when she needed him to, no pretense, no hurt in his eyes. There are so many doubts she could explore now; all those lanes seem too exhausting to follow.

"What do you say? Okay?" 

Eyelids still shut tight, she nods. It's good enough, for now. A few silent seconds later, she lets his palm guide her to taste him again. It had started the exact same way, the previous evening; a chaste, unhurried kiss. Chapped, plush lips, a broken sigh of relief in his chest and a racing heart in hers. He kisses her like he can't quite believe she would let him, with incredulity that she'd want to drink the muffled gasps from his mouth as much as she does. He kisses like he could spend all day doing just that, his hand brushing slow caresses down her flanks, her neck, her chest. There's no bottomless hunger in them, none of the breathless elation of a race that would leave them burned out at the very end; he kisses her like she's something precious, something to be memorized and relished, every moment appreciated. Like she's his home. It radiates through her insides like sunlight. She could do it, she realizes; could let that smoldering need to get somewhere settle and ease into the comfortable, low heat they could bask in.

She whimpers as his lips leave her bereft after a single peck to her cupid's bow. She tries to pull him back in but he doesn't let her, both of their breaths labored, his cock already more than half-hard and scorching against her thigh, even through the fabric of his sweatpants. "We could try again," he whispers, breathless. "If you want to. Not try to make you come, I mean. Just-" She doesn't answer, not with words; mind already made up, she leans in to press her lips back to his. Then, to the junction of his neck and jaw. Then another one against his pulse point, gentle and unhurried, his arms pulling her closer. Her hand travels down the expanse of his body as she tastes his skin, down his chest, his stomach. He grabs her wrist before she reaches her destination, a quiet noise of protest dying against his collarbone. "Later. I'd rather focus on you. Now that I know." He looks at her to gauge her reaction. "And now that I can actually see you," he says with a soft smile, crooked teeth and honest, raw want. He looks even younger like that, radiant and relaxed in dampened morning light. He _wants_ to see her, all of her, she realizes. There's nothing she has to hide from him, nothing to lie about, nothing to be afraid of. It's still difficult to get used to that thought. She lets him pull her closer, slumps against his chest and shudders at the caresses of his hand against her spine, at the slow slide of his palms against the bare skin of her lower back beneath her shirt. "What do you want to happen now, sweetheart?"

"Dunno. Anything." As long as it's with him. As long as it's the same easy, heavy calm; just low simmering pleasure, without a destination.

His breath tickles the short hairs on her forehead. "We could just keep making out if you want." He presses a soft kiss, right there; just keeps her close to him for a few breaths. "I'd really like to finger you, though." He keeps her steady through a deep, trembling inhale, through a slow cant of her core against his hip. "Would you like that?" 

She sighs, languid and breathless, tries to smother that voice at the back of her mind, unsure and hesitant. "Yeah." 

She moves her hips again, just the barest of pressures, almost automatic; it's enough to bunch the folds of his shirt up to his navel. He must feel it now, the burning heat separated from his skin by nothing but dampened fabric of her knickers. "And please, don't try. Don't make me try."

"I won't, I promise." With one last kiss to her temple, he pushes himself upright and effortlessly rearranges her to lie on her back right by his side. His hands tremble as he pulls the blanket off of her, then rids of her underwear after her affirmative nod. He stretches out by her side, lower half of her body completely bare to the chilled air, one leg brought up and slightly bent, just so her knee rests over his lower thighs. Just enough to open her to his intended ministrations. "Comfortable?"

She nuzzles into his shoulder with a quiet hum of confirmation; she could probably fall asleep like that, head pillowed on his bicep, mind focused on hardly anything but his heartbeat thrumming beneath her palm.

At times like that, his thoughts are so apparent they might as well be trickling directly into hers. Hesitation. Disbelief, still persistent somewhere at the back of his head, about her really wanting him back. Sweet wonder, at being able to gauge every detail of her body, unobscured by darkness. His adorable diffidence about braving newly discovered territories, a finest shade of doubt into how he makes her feel. "You can touch me," she whispers and places a tender kiss on his jaw. "I trust you."

A press of his plush lips to her temple, an acknowledgment. 

He doesn't touch her right away, not for a long time. Not where she needs him the most. At first, all he does is watch, scrutinize every bare inch of her body. A spattering of freckles on her lower abdomen. The dip above her pubic bone. The ragged scar on her thigh from the time she fell off her bike and scraped her leg on a protruding root. The dampened dusting of curls on her mound. Unhurried movements, he pulls the hem of her t-shirt up, just enough to press the steady weight of his palm against her abdomen. Like that, he spans almost the entire width of her waist, the tip of his pinky barely grazing her pubic hair. He keeps her still, immovable. It doesn't take long for a frustrated plea to escape her lips, barely audible against his chest. 

"Shh." He holds her just like that, cradled in his strong arms. It would take him less than a second to move and caress her folds, to reach her wetness. Just one breath to praise her for being good for him. She could grab his wrist herself, make it slide lower, make him part her soft curls and feel how ready she is for him. She doesn't. She doesn't settle either, the muscles of her middle tensing and trembling beneath his touch. The shivers are slow to spread, like a warm glow of sun rays, first claiming her hips, then her thighs.

She lets her eyelids drift down, just barely ajar, loose; the sunlight splits into ribbons of rainbow against the particles of dust on her lashes. She lets the shivers reach her backside, then her core. Lets them trickle up her vertebrae and down to her knees. "Ben," she whispers, an acknowledgment rather than a plea. 

"That's it. We're not going anywhere. That's all I want you to feel now."

It reaches her arms, too; her fingers tremble as she clenches them in the soft fabric covering his bicep. "You're going to touch me, though." The sentence comes out more as a question. 

"I am touching you." She can hear the slight lilt of a smile in his voice. 

"Ben." She's too heavy, too weighted down for anything more than a weak chuckle. 

"Touch you were?" A slow glide of his thumb. The barest movement of the tips of his fingers against her mound. 

"My-" The gentlest kiss to the bridge of her nose.

"Your what?" She's not sure why she gets like that with him; so unsure, so flushed with embarrassment, all her previous experiences be damned. She's never experienced _this_ , nothing anywhere near this. She's never been stripped bare, never been pried open and raw with as little as sweet words and the unfaltering knowledge that there's nothing to be afraid of, noticing to hide. She'd never let herself be seen right through, not by someone who _knows_ her. Who she hopes will be a constant in her life as long as he has her. "Your what, sweetheart?" 

"My pussy." 

"I will." He rests for a moment before moving, first up to her sternum, then back down, even slower. "Don't worry about it now." He brushes his knuckles against her hip bones, massages the front of her thighs, then the outer sides. Every once in a while he gifts her with another chaste kiss, to her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, to the corners of her mouth. As if they had all the time in the world. As if there was nowhere at all to get to, as if they could do just this until the sun went down. "Touch your tits for me." She reaches up as he strokes the delicate skin of her inner thighs, from her knee, up to the tendon connecting her groin to her leg. They're so tender, her breasts; even through the fabric of her t-shirt. She presses down on them, lets the shivers wander to her shoulder blades, lets them settle in the spaces between her ribs and at the back of her neck. Runs her thumbs over the buds of her nipples and just breathes, lets the inhales make her dizzy, focuses on where Ben's hand rests impossibly close to her warmth. She fights herself to keep her hips still but for the minimal twitches. "That's it. This is all we're gonna do. You'll do your best to be good and relax for me-" He presses down, just the barest hint against the side of her outer lip that makes her whimper. "And I'm going to touch you. I'll play with you however you want to. As long or as short as you want to, only until you've had enough. You tell me when that is." His mouth brushes against her jaw in a languid, open-mouthed kiss. "Will you tell me?"

"Yeah. You can give me more for now. Usually it just-" The words unravel on her tongue at the wet press of his tongue. "It just gets too much and… simmers out at some-" 

"Shh. Just tell me when that happens. It's okay." The confirmation dies on her lips as he places two fingers on either side of her labia. Slow, rhythmic pressure. A gentle press towards her clit from both sides, muffled through the barrier of her folds. "Easy." He kisses up her jaw, leaves wet traces on his way to the proximity of her lips. Only then she realizes how badly her thighs shake. She wants to ask him, make him tell how he had managed to reduce her to this, to trembling limbs and empty mind. She doesn't; all she does is breathe through the spasms, through the heavy, molten glow right between where his fingers are, through the wet caress of his tongue asking permission at her mouth. She gladly grants it to him, tastes the acrid echo of the breakfast they'd shared, tastes him. A leisurely slide, the gentlest click of their teeth. Her breaths come in heavy, tremulous, interrupted by muffled gasps at every press of his fingers against the sides of her clit through the folds of her flesh; up and down, infuriatingly slow. Each languid roll of the bud between his digits makes her nerves sing. Gentle. Teasing. 

"Please." It comes out weak, her breath hitching. 

"Easy. I've got you," he tells her, voice low and smooth. It rumbles in her ears, trickles down her spine. She's safe. He'll take care of her. "Deep breaths."

She tries her best to listen to him, to satisfy herself with the light-headedness and the lazy stretch of her muscles that makes her toes curl. To get a lungful after lungful of his scent, to let it spread through her bones as his fingers finally release her clit and spread her labia to dip into the wetness that has gathered there.

"Breathe. Just be here with me." He rests there, almost motionless, the tip of his finger circling her entrance, never as much as trying to press in. "Good? Not too much?"

She does her best to shake her head no. She wants to reach down, wants to make him slide inside her, make him do something, anything. She doesn't. Both of her hands scramble for purchase to hold onto him, his arm, his chest. She breathes through the shivers and lets them carry her; lets out a low moan as they cradle her, as they push her deeper into his arms, deeper into another one of his open-mouthed kisses. His finger draws the most minuscule circles to explore her wetness, dips ever so slightly in, just to the first knuckle. The touches don't even reach her clit. It would be so easy for him to touch it, just an inch or so upwards; so easy to trace a circle around her sensitive bud and reach the exact place he teases now. "That's it. Good girl. Look at you." She brings one of her hands back to her breast, squeezes the pliant flesh and lets his praise run through her in gentle tingles. Lets it fill her blood like a torrent. "So beautiful. My girl, my perfect girl." He presses ever so slightly in; gentle, rhythmic pulses. In and out, each one a tiniest bit deeper than the last. She'd lost count of how many times she dreamt about his hands doing just that, filling her so much better than her own fingers ever could. "Do you believe me when I tell you this is all I want to do? Just hold you like that and make you shiver for me?" 

They make her heart ache, his words; because she does. She believes him, she realizes. She wants this, just this; just the narrowest moment, that very second and that single tremble that shakes her, the very slice of reality she inhabits right now. She's so slick around him; it takes no effort at all for him to slide all the way in, barely a milliliter at a time, until the meat of his palm meets her swollen folds. Her pelvis cants upwards despite her best efforts to stay still as he settles inside her; he doesn't move at all, scorching and solid inside her, perfect for her to clench on. She does just that. Leisurely, rhythmic contractions. Pressure pooling low in her belly.

A wet kiss against her neck. "Sweetheart."

"Hm?" 

A nibble on her ear. It would be so easy for him to slide his ring finger inside her, too. To slowly stretch her, minutes at a time. To open her up for his cock, slower than she would know how to take. Then fill her up until she could barely breathe. 

"I asked you a question." Her hands wander down to his wrist, fingers dipping in between his knuckles. Just to keep him there. Just to press him a little deeper. "Hands on your tits." Reluctant, she follows his instruction, leaves him to begin gentle pulsing movements within her. Her thoughts seem sluggish, hazed, softened by every flick against her covered nipples. Blurred by each glide against her inner walls, the tip of his finger curled to drag through the spongy tissue just inside her. "Like that?" 

"Less pressure," she mumbles and he immediately adjusts his touch. The gentlest, wet glide; each delicate caress awakening her nerve endings. Her flesh squelches each time he plunges in, bright hot and effortless. "Yes."

"Do you believe me?" he repeats, murmurs right into her ear, so endlessly patient with her. He pulls out for a long second, makes her hips twitch with a slow slide up and around her swollen clit. Just one. Then, he slips back inside her. "That this is all I want to do right now? Even though I've never been harder in my life?" All of a sudden, his movements cease, his finger buried to the hilt inside her; the contrast of sensations makes her leg muscles stretch and her toes curl. "That all I want to do is to play with your beautiful cunt? That I could spend all day making you feel as good as I know how to?" 

It's the easiest thing in the world to let her muscles slowly tense up and relax, to let the words out with the next contented sigh; words that aren't even the answer to his question. "I love you."

"Fuck, Rey." For a brief moment, the warmth of his hand disappears and leaves her bereft; his nose brushes against her cheek as he plants a reverent kiss just shy of her upper lip, the moisture gathered on his hand stains her neck with his caress. "Me too." Then, he touches her again, fingers resting motionless on either side of her labia, just hair's breadth from her clit. "I love you so much." In an easy glide, he slides through her labia and settles on both sides of her sensitive bud; and just rests there. Not much pressure at all. "You're so gorgeous like this. So wet." A slow slide upwards, towards the peak of her mound, then back down along the very same valleys, barest brush against the nerve-laced skin. "So sensitive. It's like the smallest touch could overstimulate you."

The tip of his finger glides right over the underside of her hood. Her hips immediately twitch at the intense sensation. 

"Shit, sorry." 

"It's okay." 

He goes back to the same well-tried caresses, right by the very side of her clit. He takes his time with her, the same easy, low-hanging warmth coaxed back into spreading with each glide, each one ever so slightly more directed to the center than the previous one, each one slightly more intense. "Just like that, huh?"

"Yeah." The word bleeds into a breathy moan. Slow, continuous strokes. One side, then the other. Scorching circles, each one closer to her bud, the pad of his finger a bit more solid on the swollen, rosied flesh. Slick sounds meddle with her whimpers, melt into one in her ears with each second her body lets him touch her more directly. Tip of one finger, then two. 

"Good?"

They roam her folds, spread her wetness to her apex. "Yes." They plunge back inside her, slowly guide her through the bright hot stretch. "Fuck, I'm-" 

"Breathe." 

She does. He explores her to the rhythm of her gasps, only accelerates when she moans at the steady pressure growing behind her pubic bone. Wet, slick noises. Fluent movement. He stops when she becomes taut as a string, pulls out only to let her grind her soaked mound against his palm, let her bring the pads of his fingers back to her clit to resume the previous caresses. 

"Deep breaths, sweetheart. As deep as you can." Only then she notices how shallow her gasps have become. She tries to even them out, to suck the air in to the assuring whispers in her ear. One, two, three, four. Then exhale. "That's it. Easy. Try not to tense up." She has to put a conscious effort to relax her back, her limbs, to let the tension ease out with each exhale, to let it slip through the sharp sparks of each decisive stroke of his as her inner muscles clench on nothing at all almost painfully.

"Could you-" For a second, she considers sliding her fingers beneath where his own work at her pleasure, anything to try to scratch that unappeasable itch. 

"Hm?" 

"Wait."

He pauses for a moment when she does just that, two of her fingers gliding inside her scorching heat, pressing against the spongy tissue to the wild beat of her heart. "Keep going." He does, caresses unrelenting and steady. It's right there, she can tell; and yet, it seems impossibly out of reach. She tries to relax into it, to let their synchronized efforts carry her higher than she's ever been. The shivers ebb and flow into almost uncontrollable spasms of her thighs, sparks of sensation only grow more acute but don't help her climb. The touch on her clit goes from soft to too intense, the press of her fingers ever so slightly uncomfortable; whatever she'd built of that deep, smoldering arousal halts on the same level, ready to plummet down. "Shit." It's supposed to be right there. 

"Too much?" 

"I'm-" She doesn't know, she doesn't know anymore. 

His hand stills, rests warm and heavy against her core. "I meant it. We can stop whenever you feel we should."

It takes her a moment to settle her body down, to get her breathing under a semblance of control, too far from the languid easiness she felt when they began. She curses at the uncomfortable drag of her fingers sliding out of her tightened channel. 

"Little break?" 

"I don't know." Tears prickle at her eyes. "I sort of got past that point where I feel like I should've-"

"We weren't supposed to try, though," he says, slightly amused. Just like that, the mood lifts the tiniest bit.

"I wasn't _trying_ trying, it just…" It seemed so close. Like a few more strokes, a few more thrusts of her fingers could get her there. "I don't know."

"You want to keep going?" 

Her cunt still pulses where he touches her; even with his hand motionless, her nerves seem too worn out to go on at the same pace. "In a minute, maybe?" 

"Okay. Break, then."

She lets herself ease down, just like that. Gradually. Drifts on the hot press of his erection against her thigh and the comforting slide of his dampened fingers down her flanks, on his hushed whispers and sweet nothings, on his soft and playful nips against her lip, stolen between sighs growing deeper. Lets him absorb all her worries, all her not-quite-aftershocks. Maybe they could end just like that, on the languid, heavy warmth pooling in her belly. No pretending, no theatrics. This could be it. Just the easy acceptance, her arousal fizzling out into nothing. The perspective brings the prickle of tears to her eyes. "Could we stop, for now?" Her voice comes out smaller, weaker than she intended. "With me, I mean."

He pulls her in with a quiet assurance, smothers the apologies that want to press themselves onto her lips and holds her until her heartbeat settles back into the normal rhythm. Once it does, she lets herself card through his almost dry locks as he rocks against her, still scorching hot and desperate. It doesn't take long for him to quicken his pace; she guides him there, draws mindless patterns on his back as he brings himself to a quick orgasm against her hip.

He doesn't look at her with pity as his breaths ease down to match the rhythm of her own, or disappointment. His eyes give her the same wonder, the same molten satisfaction she would imagine seeing if she _did_ , somehow, manage to come.

And for the first time in her life she finds that at some point, one day, she could see herself not minding it at all. 

One day.

. 

She tries not to mind. 

She does her best to settle her anxieties into the brand new awareness that all the pressure she puts on herself is solely her doing, that this is how it could look from now on. No rush, none at all. No worries about any kinds of unachievable goals, just the same familiar love and understanding, the same languid, low-burning pleasure. All of it on her terms. 

But she can't quite shake the persistent idea embedded at the very back of her head, can't help at the faint ray of hope creeping up on her. 

Because, for the briefest of beats, it seemed like she _could_ get there. If only she tried a little bit harder, or maybe if she stopped trying at all; if she let Ben take care of her and carry her there, coax the new kinds of pleasure out of her with each patient kiss and each slicked caress he gave to her folds. If only she made herself withstand a few more minutes of it, or maybe even seconds, if she managed to breathe through the sharp pangs of overstimulation and let him press a little bit harder, let him quicken the pace against her clit until she had no other choice than to hold on to him and force her body to bear it. Maybe it would end just where she wants it to. 

Maybe she isn't broken after all; maybe it is just a mental barrier she could break through with enough care and patience. 

She tries to imagine it as she splurges time on one of the rare occasions she had decided on a bath rather than a brisk shower. With the water calm on her nerves, with one leg perched on the edge of the tub and her palms motionless on either side of her inner thighs, she thinks of what it would be like. Her entire body safe in Ben's grip and teased alive, she could let the shivers take control of her, let them consume her. It would start low in her belly, the pool of molten glow, poised to overflow. Each time it grew and spread, her hips would twitch with the sparks awakening in her spine, simmering down her bones to the very tips of her fingers. It would seem like too much, for a short while. He would hold her safe through all of it, broken moans muffled against the crook of his neck; he'd keep her leg still as she shook and tried to rip herself free from his grasp. Between one moment and the next, with breath lodged in her lungs and back muscles contracted with the intensity of sensation, she would grow still. Just for a single beat of white calm and thoughtless state of simply _being_. Then, it would all overflow. Muscles deliciously gripped by uncontrollable tension, long seconds stretching until she couldn't tell how many of them passed. She'd exist with no care in the world other than the white-hot grip of pleasure on every cell in her body, on every fleeting thought that might drift through the blank plains of her mind.

She'd come out of it with pearly laughter and tears of triumph down her temples. Maybe it would cause a domino effect, push him over the edge with her. 

She wraps herself in the soft, fluffy fabric of her favorite towel, wipes the droplets of moisture and beginnings of perspiration from her skin to the series of images in her head. Of Ben's satisfied grin and unabashed laugh just because she had _made_ it, of more of his praise and sweet words, so filled with breathless wonder. Of his kisses, tight-lipped because of a barely concealed smile.

And then they'd do it again, now that she knew it was possible. Then again. And again. 

It seems so close to turning into more than just a daydream. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, guys! I'm so sorry for the long wait, life has gone a little bit hectic lately, and I suck at regular updates at the best of times 😂 I'll try to get chapter 3 done a little bit quicker than this one. Merry Christmas/Yule/whatever you celebrate!

One of the perks of their new relationship is no need to ever find excuses, of any kind. Not to simply want to be around Ben, legs draped casually over his lap as they watch another episode of some ridiculous reality TV show they found on Netflix, his hands a steady presence on parts of her body that wouldn't make anyone think twice, her knees, her calves. She can hug him on every single whim, hold him for a few beats longer than a friend would, just because she wanted to lose herself in the scent of home embedded in his clothes. She can steal his shirts and sweaters if she feels like it, just to feel closer to him. _I was cold, and it was right there_ , she used to say.

 _You know I like the oversized ones_. _They're comfy._

 _Oh come on, it's my laundry day_.

 _I forgot to take my robe with me to the bathroom, I thought I'd just grab it_. _Unless you'd rather I pranced around naked._

She doesn't have to talk herself out of wanting to tousle his hair just to check how soft it is, or wanting to pull him in for a kiss just to test if his lips would be as plush against her skin as she'd imagined for all those months of fooling herself he could never treat her as anything other than a little sister he never had. All she needs to do is sit up and snatch the remote out of his hands whenever she feels like it; all she needs to do is grab the front of his t-shirt and kiss another one of those cute, trivial rants he tends to get too passionate about off of his lips.

She doesn't; all she does is bite down her grin. 

"I know it's human to get horny every once in a while," he exclaims with an adorably grumpy expression and eyes fixated on the screen. "But they should at least _pretend_ they're trying to keep it in their pants. Makes it look like they don't give the slightest shit about the prize." 

"They probably don't. That's the thing though," she says, mouth half-full, back propped against the cushions to keep herself from choking on sugar-coated strawberries Ben had sliced for her. "This is the type of people they cast there."

"Rich horny people with no concept of delayed gratification?" 

"Yeah, like. Imagine building a house that you ran fifty motherlodes on, stuffing it full of sims with serial romantic aspiration, so they're all in a flirty mood literally as soon as they're awake. You couldn't possibly keep them from making gooey eyes at one another and woo-hooing I'm every bush." With every word, his expression grows more confused. She points at him with the fork, a piece of strawberry speared on its prongs. "Especially if you added that funky sex mod to make it more lifelike, it's literally like popping a mentos into a bottle of coke. Give them five minutes and they'd all be having an orgy."

He gives her a slow blink, eyebrows raised. " _Who_ would be having _what_ with a funky _what_?" 

She rolls her eyes. "The Sims, Ben. The game. I thought you'd appreciate a metaphor."

"I know what the Sims is, would you imagine. I'm not seventy." He plucks one piece from her bowl and places it in his mouth. On the screen, another pair of contestants throws a spanner in the works by sharing a boozy hot tub bath, further proving her comparison to be right. He turns towards her again after a long minute. "A funky _what_?" 

"I'm not entirely sure you want to know."

He turns back to the screen with a scoff and a barely concealed smirk. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Pearly laughter bubbles up in her chest. "You're such a grandpa sometimes."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I'm perfectly up to date with-" With an exasperated frown, he makes an abstract gesture with his hand, then places it back on her knee. "Things. Like tiktok, for one. I know what tiktok is."

"I'm so proud of you." She snickers and licks the sugar crystals from her lips. "Grandpa," she adds after a long second, gauging his face for a reaction. 

His eyes flick to her mouth for a fraction of a second. "You'll literally never see a pop tart in your life if you keep that up."

"That deal included nothing about calling you a grandpa."

"I'm adding an amendment, effective immediately."

"Okay, but seriously. You think you'd win this?" She motions her head towards the TV, as much as she can in her position.

"Seriously, yeah."

In moments like this, she would usually try to hold back; calculate how far her teasing should go not to cross that invisible line they've been skittering around for months on end. Some subjects she'd have to tiptoe around, just to keep herself from blurting out something that would leave her too open for him to see. No such things to worry about anymore. Anything she wants to say, she can; anywhere she wants to touch him, she could legitimately consider asking. The realization makes her breathing easier than it's been since they've met. 

"You know that includes masturbation, though? Your balls would turn bluer than Sonic the Hedgehog. That's a month there, Ben."

He looks at her, eyes subtly warmer, attentive. It's a familiar look, now that she thinks about it; he has welcomed her with it most mornings, bedhead, a pillowcase crease on her cheek, and an ugly yawn. It grew in his eyes every time she got ready to go out with Rose and Finn, uneven lipstick and mascara most likely smudged on her eyelids, uncharacteristically tight-fitting clothes she never actually intended to seduce anyone with; apart from the only person she knew would always wait for her, at the end of a long day. He looked at her like that when he saw her fresh from the shower, or every time she snatched his t-shirt or a hoodie to wrap herself with. It's always been tinged with the tiniest bit of hurt and longing. None of that shows in his eyes now.

"Not to mention we're on the right track to having sex basically every day," she adds, desperately hoping she hasn't grown embarrassingly red under his scrutiny. "Which puts you rather high on the horny scale and in no position to criticize miss Francesca." She crams another strawberry in her mouth and brings her leg up again to poke his bicep, his fingers loose on her calf. 

"Yeah, but there's no prize here. Not to mention none of these people are my type, I wouldn't be tempted even if I was single." The words awaken something warm in her chest. 

"Yeah, but what if _I_ was there?" 

"Is that a trick question?" His eyes soften as he leans back against the couch. "'Cause you know you can ask me whatever you want, you don't have to beat around the bush."

It must've crept up on her and right into their conversation, the doubt she had stashed away at the back of her mind; she barely even noticed. "I'm just trying to gauge-" 

"My libido?"

She hesitates under his intent gaze. "Sort of." The words come out as a whisper.

He's silent for a long second. "You know we don't have to have sex every day, right? I mean," he adds with a chuckle, "it would get too much for pretty much everyone after a while. Unless you're a _Too hot to handle_ contestant, apparently."

All the doubt begins to seep out of her subconscious and infect her thoughts. All the sexual encounters she counted as more than half-failed, each time she felt inadequate; each person that made her feel she wasn't enough, all her efforts be damned. Each time she couldn't quite match the intensity of her partners' arousal, and each time she felt she had failed to evoke enough of it. In all honesty, she can't think of a single person she'd been with that would be satisfied with what they did yesterday. With nothing but long minutes of being forced to finger her, just as expected, bringing no desired result. On her part, no reciprocation but lying still through a few clumsy thrusts against her hip. There's hardly anything she has to offer in the visual department to make up for it all. A frayed haystack of hair and a body that still isn't quite done filling out after years of malnutrition, knobby knees and narrow hips, breasts nearly flat. Maybe it's for the best that he didn't even ask her to take her shirt off.

What if, one day, Ben decided the same thing the rest of them did? That she simply doesn't have enough to offer to make up for what she lacks? That it was good while it lasted, but there's not much to keep him with her as more than a friend beyond the initial excitement of experiencing sex? She sits up and deposits the bowl on their coffee table, suddenly all too interested in chipped nail polish on her thumbnail. They were supposed to be honest, all the way. "Frequency isn't the point. I just- was it enough for you?" 

"What, yesterday?" 

She looks up to find him absolutely dumbfounded. "Yeah."

"Rey." He says her name with an unspoken _come on_ , as if she was missing the absolute obvious, not asking a legitimate question. 

"What?" 

"What exactly made you think it wasn't enough?" 

She shrugs. "You came in your pants. I barely did anything."

Every word she speaks only makes him look more flabbergasted. "I really fail to see your logic here."

"I'm just saying that you came so fast that-" He presses his lips together, utterly failing to hide his amusement. "I'm being serious, don't laugh at me."

"I'm sorry, you're the one teasing my one minute wonder skills here. Not to mention you keep disproving your own hypothesis."

"I don't mean it in a bad way, I'm just saying that you did all the work. And I barely reciprocated."

For a long second, he just stares at her, furrowed brows and concern fused with traces of amusement, as if she was being unreasonable, as if there was absolutely nothing to be anxious about. He picks the remote from his lap and hits the pause button; the living room falls silent. The rush of blood in her ears seems all the louder for it. "I really don't know what to tell you." He cards his hand through his hair as he turns sideways to face her. "I _wanted_ to focus on you. I wanted to let you enjoy yourself without being pressured." It's difficult to hold his gaze sometimes, like this. As if he could read every single stray thought her mind conjures in the hazel of her irises. There's such an utter, unfaltering conviction in his eyes, more surety than she knows what to do with. "I told you as much, more than once. And you said you believed me."

"I did." 

"At that moment, yeah. But I don't think you do now." Can he really blame her? People don't do that, in her experience. They never just give, not without wanting twice as much in exchange. They don't give as much as she needs; not of time, not of patience. Especially not once they learn their time will be wasted on her. A nervous tick makes his chin shudder. "I mean. Is this how you see it?" He continues before she thinks of a proper answer. "Because I don't want you to see this thing between us as a transaction." Every word glosses his eyes with tears, makes him look raw, vulnerable. "I don't touch you because I expect something in return. You call this _work_ , but I touch you because I legitimately want to. To show you that… that I love you and that I care and that I like making you happy. And believe it or not, it genuinely turns me on and I enjoy it. It's not work to me."

Her throat tightens with what she doesn't quite know how to articulate. No one has ever told her this; not in word, certainly not in action. It might've seemed like that at first, she might've tentatively assumed it was the case, but sooner or later the frustration always bled through. It's not that she ever blamed them; each of them had their reasons. 

There are easier things in the world to love than her.

Things other than her jutting ribs and her clinginess to the ones she managed to muster some trust for, her wariness and years of past she would rather bury somewhere nobody would ever find. Other than her insecurities and useless trinkets that might one day come in handy, her hatred of food waste and her trust issues most people wouldn't bother fumbling with. No one has ever told her it's all worth it. No one has ever thought so.

He looks down at his hands, shoulders slumped, lip shuddering as if he's about to cry. "I mean, I don't know. Is it naive to think it should be like this? I don't exactly have much to compare this to." 

"It's not naive, just-" She shrugs. "Not really common in my experience." 

"Did you only touch me because you thought I expected you to?" With that, he looks up at her, more devastated and hopeful than she'd seen him since he blurted out the confession of his feelings. "Or did you want to, genuinely?" The words stop her dead in her tracks, his train of thought way off the rails she expected it to take.

"Ben-" The protests die on her lips as he reaches to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. He leans away from her, gaze determined to avoid hers, even as she straddles his lap to keep him from walking away with that horrible misunderstanding in his head. "Of course I touch you because I want to, why would you even think that?" 

He huffs and gives her a wane smile through the tears welling in his eyes, hands tentative on her thighs. "I don't know, why would you?" 

She used to admire him for it, how genuinely humble he seemed, how completely unaware of his best qualities he was. How he gave without a second thought, not even requiring as much as a simple thank you. It wasn't until later in their friendship that she found out it ran deeper than that; at times, it made her feel as if she was staring right back at her own reflection. "I hate that you don't know how amazing you are." _Or how beautiful you are._ _How kind, and honest, and utterly easy to love._

A rose-colored flush on his cheeks, he pulls her into a tight hug, wordless reassurances in each subtle caress, in each brush of her thumb against his back, each time he runs his fingers through the hair that came loose from her bun. "You too, you know that?" 

She wants to argue with him, wants to deny his words; say she's just a nobody, just a scrap of a girl from nowhere that had most of her childhood ripped away from her. At times, she has to remind herself she's so much more than that. A girl from nowhere, yes; but also someone who climbed her way out of the abyss she thought would consume her, someone who managed to slice a tiny piece of life that's perfectly her own, filled with friendship and ambitions and endless possibilities. A girl that, against all odds, made something out of herself, that found people who care for her and someone she wants to love until there's none of it left inside her to give. "I try to."

"I know. Me too." For a long while, he just holds her, content to breathe in the scent of her hair and lazily curl the strands around his pointer finger. "And please, don't worry about this. About me being satisfied. 'Cause I am, I promise."

"I just-" Honesty, she has to remind herself. "I want to be enough."

"You are." The words bring a prickle of tears to her eyes. "More than enough, just as you are."

Time will probably pass before she truly believes it, among other things. She could be enough. With her contagious laugh and impulsivity, freckles she long ago learned not to hate and sharp corners of her figure she has yet learned to love, vices and virtues combined. "You too." For a few breaths, he holds her just a tiniest bit tighter. "I still want to reciprocate."

"And I want you to. But we don't have to do everything at once, okay? We have time." _Time_. Another luxury she couldn't afford at times; there's always been a clock ticking, measuring the seconds left until she's alone again. He doesn't know that. "I'm not going anywhere."

He doesn't know that either. 

_Don't say that_ , she wants to say. _Don't make promises I'd do anything for you to keep._ "What if I asked you to?" she mumbles instead against the crook of his neck, tone half in jest. 

"You're kicking me out of my own apartment?" 

"No." She plants a chaste kiss right there, on the patch of skin closest to her lips. "Wanna go get waffles?"

.

Why is it in her to be so persistent at hoping, even after failure upon failure proving her wrong?

. 

"Stop putting this pressure on yourself," Ben whispers against her temple after most of her sobs wind down to nothing but a stray hitch in her breath. "Please."

Muscles worn out, her bare legs tingle from being kept up against the headboard where she absent-mindedly pokes the fairy lights she'd decorated it with; bright chartreuse of the nail polish on her toes clashes with the forest green of the wall. She tries to take her mind off of it, to focus on counting the tiny round light bulbs that keep her company every evening. The sweat making her shirt stick to her skin slowly begins to run cold. "I don't think I know how to do that."

He had spent what felt like hours pulling sounds of pleasure out of her, once she gave in. Once she quelled a big part of her guilt and insecurity, comforted by the look of utter peace on his face as he ate her out, so gentle and soft and slow. Wet kisses planted all over her thighs, he brought her to the same state of hazed mind and heavy limbs, her skin singing to the conduct of his touch; his hands, his lips, his tongue. He pushed her, too, just as she asked, even past the point at which her arousal dissipated and her eyes brimmed with tears, spine tense like a string drawn taut, nerves like an exposed live wire. Past the point where she had to wrench his head away from between her legs. The slick wetness dries down on her mound, on each spot he caressed.

"Rey," he lets her name out like an exasperated sigh, as if he'd run out of things to tell her. It's only a matter of time until he gets tired of that, too. Of her hopeless crusade, of her ending up upset most of the times they get intimate. That's what she feared, isn't it? Exactly what she thought she couldn't bear witnessing him feel. And now, she's the one upset and dissatisfied, she's the one giving him anything other than the sweet comfort and acceptance he deserves. 

"I'm sorry." She was so convinced she could stop worrying about it as long as nobody else cared, that the only pressure she could cave under was the outside sort. With utter certainty, she had told him as much; the words feel like another ruse on her part. "I just feel so bloody stupid."

"You're not stupid." He plants a soft kiss on her shoulder. "At all. I can't imagine how frustrating this must be for you." No judgment, no pity or frustration on his end; just pure compassion.

"It is." It's more liberating than she thought it would be to admit it to herself; how much it taunts her, the entire world that most people adore basking in, one she's irreversibly locked out of. How much she feels it makes her less of a woman. Less human, even, however exaggerated that sounds. How, sometimes, it makes her want to scream, the accumulated tension trapped like a balloon that won't pop, forced to slowly deflate through a minuscule abrasion on its surface. "I told you I don't mind but it's not true. I hate it so much sometimes. Even if you don't."

He must've recognized the questioning note in her tone, read the unspoken _Which I'm still not quite convinced of_ ,because he adds: "I only hate how miserable it makes you."

"I just. I keep on hoping like an idiot. That it could happen once I stop caring. But then, even if I try to let it go and convince myself I don't care, I still do? 'Cause I'm still hoping _that_ might work?" She sniffles. "Sorry, I don't know if that makes any sense."

"No, it does."

"I never thought hope could be a toxic thing, you know." All impressions of the imagined future where something changes just beg to fizzle away from her mind; future where she's one of the lucky ones that find a solution, that forget to care only to come across what they gave up on right around the corner. "I wish I could just appreciate what we have." His chest moves with a deep sigh, the slightest bit of hurt turns the line of his lips into a frown. "Wait, I didn't mean- I made it sound-" 

"No, I know." A few times, he sucks in an interrupted breath; then, he says: "How much would you hate me if I suggested something?"

"Please, don't," she groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. It's the last thing she needs, another novel idea that just might be the one, another one to fill her with false hope.

"It's nothing technical, though."

She sighs. "Ben, please. Just leave it." Technical, psychological, it's all the same; just a scavenger hunt for another potential solution that wears her down to the bone. "You have no idea how exhausting this is."

"I know." When she glimpses him, he looks at her like he's just as weary, partial to all the hurt and disappointment she can't help but stew in. As if it takes just as big of a toll on him to watch her, helpless, as she finds herself caught in the same old roller-coaster of hopes and let downs. He takes a steadying breath, palm warm on her ribs. "Sweetheart."

It's the only pet name she's ever heard come out of his mouth as long as she's known him; it still makes her grow just as warm as it did when they were just friends, when he spoke it in jest. "Hm?" 

"Have you thought about talking to someone? Like, a professional?" 

"I have, I told you."

"I mean a therapist. Someone that specializes in things like that." 

She takes a careful moment to consider his words. It would be easier to dismiss the idea right away, to joke about it, tease him about watching too much Netflix. To find any excuse, financial or otherwise. It's right there on her tongue, but she holds herself back. It's not like she doesn't have some money set aside, now that she gets paid more than a bare minimum. Not like Ben wouldn't insist on helping anyway. 

"You don't have to deal with everything on your own." A gentle card of his fingers through her hair elicits a shiver down her spine; the words, too. It took him a long time to figure out just that, she knows.

It's something she still has trouble accepting.

The truth is, she's not used to it. To relying on anyone other than herself. As long as she remembers, it's always been just her, as determined as terrified and abandoned, on her own against whatever hardship life decided would be funny to throw at her, just to see if _this next thing_ might be the one that knocks her off of her feet. And she'd survived all of it, every step that should've been able to break her. At five years of age, she survived waking up alone in the rusty banger of a van her parents used to camp in after one too many notices of running behind on rent payment. She survived years of convincing herself they didn't mean to leave her, that any day now her patience would pay off. At ten, she survived acclimatizing to her third foster home, survived endless bike rides around the neighborhood, just to live a little bit longer without another insult or constant demands for work favors at Unkar's garage. She survived broken bones left untreated, survived when nobody at school gave a damn. At twelve, she survived casually hanging around a local Taco Bell after classes, in hope of getting her hands on any scraps the patrons might want to throw away. At fifteen, her first heartbreak. At sixteen, working herself unconscious just to save enough money to leave town once she hit the legal age. 

And here she is, five years later, with everything she could conceivably need to be happy. Everything she has trouble accepting into her life.

She's always dealt with things without outside help, it's what she's good at. She's not sure she even needs it. Not if it means another false hope to hold on to, not after all these years. Even if it might turn out to be not much more than a mental block, something interwoven too deep into her psyche to be picked apart on her own.

Maybe that's it, that's exactly what scares her so much. Finding the last thing that could work. It means the last thing that could fail. It's less of a risk to find out she had wasted all those years without even thinking of the actual solution, even if it was so close. What's much worse is a cold realization that there's nothing else left to try, nothing that could possibly make her normal. "I don't know."

"It's your choice. But someone could help you work through this thing in your head, in whatever way you need. Even if it's just to help you accept how things are."

It sounds beautiful, the idea; of a part of the phantom weight in her chest being dismantled, withering away a bit more as each day goes by. Of a possibility to end each of their love-making sessions in a perfectly contented warmth and satiation, light with their laughter and heavy with languid, post-coital drowsiness. It would take a long time to detangle all of it, to unlearn the domino effect of her own judgment; she knows. 

"Please, just think about this."

She silences the background noise of doubt in her head. 

She tries to. 

.

A tentative, unsolicited smile keeps crawling back onto her face, impervious to all her attempts at wiping it off. It's the last thing she expected to feel. Numbness and unease, yes. Resignation and cold mortification at harsh truths, probably. Not this hopeful thing in her chest, not freedom to finally take a full breath. It all peeks through the pangs of shock, a short-circuit in her brain that momentarily froze her the very moment things started making _sense_.

"It went well, I take it?" Ben inquires hesitantly after she climbs into the trusty Chevy his dad used to drive well before either of them were born, hands busy with a hefty pile of brochures and worksheets Dr. Haynes (Joslin, she reminds herself) had given her.

She drops them all carefully on the dashboard and palms the leather next to her for the seat belt buckle. "I think I'm more surprised than you are. But yeah."

It had taken her about a week or going back and forth between all _for_ s and _against_ s, a week of excruciatingly loud doubts and quiet hopes _._ She wasn't quite sure what to expect as she fought not to chew her nails off in a homely waiting room once she finally got there, imagination torn between an overexaggerated depiction of a cool aunt with no filter whatsoever and a well-intentioned but prudish elderly lady, who's idea of sex hardly went beyond missionary for reproductive purposes. She didn't expect the huge velvet cushions, stained glass lamps, and draped walls blissfully devoid of any clinical diagrams of human anatomy. Didn't expect the instant easy atmosphere and a contagious spark of determination, the " _You mind if we're on a first-name basis?_ " right after she crossed the threshold, the high heels, wild coiled locks, and an elegant summer dress that made Rey feel slightly inadequate in her denim overalls and espadrilles.

("I need to make one thing clear, okay? We're not working towards _as good as it gets_ here. We're working to get you satisfied with your sex life, period. While using exactly what you have. And some fancy medical and psychological knowledge that cost me an arm and a leg.")

In a perfect balance between structure and freedom, she had all the space to timidly stutter out all the details of her affliction, to mix amusing anecdotes with moments of coming close to tears, all the while a clear perception of a plan unrolled before her eyes. It's a long way to walk, a tangled line to unwind. But it starts to crystalize, right in front of her. She pokes and prods at the tentative grasp she has on its very beginning.

"I think we figured out what might be the cause," she says as they pull out of the parking lot, the retrofitted AC she loves to tinker with humming away the swelter, the ancient golden dice pendant hung in its usual place on the rearview mirror.

"Wait, really?" 

"We still need an MRI to confirm it. But it makes sense, I fit all the symptoms." It's not a magical solution, not even close to it. Some would consider it a defeat. She thought she would too, once; that it would leave her devastated to know, for sure this time, that there's absolutely nothing she could do to fix whatever's broken in her. But right now, the only thing that surges through her is relief. It's not just a phantom defect or a malfunction in a thought process. There's an actual, physical reason. The awareness itself makes a chunk of the weight on her shoulders fizzle away.

"What is it?" 

"Pudendal neuralgia complications." She puts on her best medical professional voice. "It's just… nerve damage. It's most likely why my periods are such a pest, too. Everything's just way more sensitive down there. Which is funny, 'cause with nerve damage you'd think it would be the other way around."

"Is it-" 

"Blunt force trauma. To my rear end," she says with feigned light-heartedness. 

He works his jaw, the way he always does when he's nervous, or upset. "It's the fucking bike accident," he says with more defeat and underlying anger than she'd expect.

"I mean, it healed, for the most part. Those things heal. There are some treatments available if symptoms are extreme, but…" She shrugs. "Nothing will _fix it_ , you know." There's a part she leaves out of it. About how a proper physical therapy, medication, or even less strain on her injury could've gotten rid of her symptoms much faster; could've thrown the _for the most part_ out of the window. About how none of it might be happening if only someone cared a little bit more.

She still remembers that time all too well; the long weeks of searing pain in her pelvis and down the backs of her thighs, constant pins and needles between her legs that made it impossible to sit at times, the sensations that left a phantom that never really went away. The sharp sensitivity alternating with numbness that made her afraid she'd pee herself in the middle of a class, or on her way home. She couldn't even crouch properly, not long enough to fix her bike; the journey she had to make twice a day elongated to forty-five excruciating minutes in searing heat. 

Ben's hands clench and unclench around the steering wheel as he puts a visible effort to keep himself focused on the road ahead. "You're gonna have to keep an eye on me, I'm literally about to book a return flight to Arizona."

"And who's butt would you kick, pray tell, gravity's?" 

"No, the piss-poor excuse of a man that made you hate coming back home." There's so much pain in his voice, more than anyone has ever bothered to feel for her. "All the people that saw a ten-year-old that could barely fucking walk and decided she could pull through on her own 'cause she wasn't worth a medical bill. Them too, for good measure." 

Her eyes prickle with tears at the truth in his words. She would hardly need more than one hand to count people that cared about her even half as much as he does. Maz and the refuge she offered, the work she let Rey do at her diner just so she could get away from the car grease, broken nails, and tons of mangled metal she had to crawl under, just because she was the only one that could easily fit there. Mrs. Olesen, her tenth-grade history teacher, the only one to notice her thin limbs and constant exhaustion, even though her concern never really amounted to any real consequences for her foster father. Leia, and the position at her non-profit she hired Rey for without a second thought, even though she was definitely underqualified for it at the time. Finn and Rose, the friends she could only dream of finding after three lonely years in a huge city that threatened to devour her.

"I'm sorry, I'm just-" His breath shakes as he slowly lets it out of his lungs. "I'm so fucking angry. You never should've been forced to go through that."

"I know." 

"You shouldn't still have to suffer the consequences."

"I know."She uses an excuse of the red light at the intersection to pull him into a half hug, an effort to comfort them both. She holds his forearm even when the light changes back to green, only reluctantly letting it go whenever he needs to shift gears. "I don't think I'm mad, though," she says when his shaking turns into tremors, when the contortions of anger on his features melt into pain. "Not anymore. Just relieved, mostly. I'm glad that I know."

"But if it wasn't for him-" 

"I want to deal with this, Ben." She's surprised by how much her voice wavers. "Not get stuck in the past I can't change. I'm sick of doing that."

He doesn't say much through the rest of their way home, doesn't do much but draw nervous circles on her knuckles as she recounts more of what she'd learned. The statistics she's been given, making her situation slightly more common than she thought it to be, the ideas and realizations she had over the course of the session, the promise of techniques Joslin swore to share with her next week. Thoughts flitter past the glint in his eyes, faster than the trees behind the car windows. He doesn't voice them. Not until they pull in in front of their apartment building. Not until he presses his lips to her forehead with a whispered "I'm proud of you, you know."

She pulls him even closer, gives a spin to the new certainties in her head, to the newly acquired lightness to each of her breaths.

He's warm and solid in her arms; a person that would tear to shreds anyone that ever dared to hurt her, a person thoughtful enough, and forgetful enough to leave a pastry shop cardboard box wrapped in a plastic bag in the backseat, just in case she might need emergency consolation in a form of sugary comfort food.

She breathes in how much she loves him, as deep as it goes.

There might be something irrevocably broken in her, something that won't be cured with years of a confident grasp of acceptance. She might still call it with that ugly word in her head sometimes. _Broken_. She might not be there yet with loving herself, not even halfway as far as he is. But she wants to get there. One day.

.

When they come back home, she doesn't think much of what she'd learned at all. 

Anger and unease still grip his shoulders, despite her best assurances that she's okay, that she's dealing with it. His fingers tremble as he breaks off pieces of blueberry pie she insisted on sharing with him, the swirls of whipped cream already turned into a melted mess in the bright blue cardboard box. He pulls her in to plant close-mouthed kisses on her head, strained with the effort to keep himself away from her long enough to let them eat; he tries to content himself with keeping her in a cradle of his arms, with stray nudges of his nose against her jaw, against the dip of her collarbone. Once she's had enough, she plucks the pastry fork from his hand (he always makes them look so small, adult-sized utensils more akin to toothpicks in his hold), climbs astride his lap, because surely he must know they don't need excuses when they need each other, they don't have to wait. She clings to him just like that, keeps him still when he tries to lay her body down to brush his mouth across each sensitive spot he could worship. 

It's only a matter of minutes until her hands ask to tug at their clothes, only enough to slot his half-hard cock against where she's warm and slick and hungry to hold him, to comfort him. Her overalls pulled down and draped over the armrest of the couch, underwear loosely moved aside. His jeans and boxer briefs dragged down to mid-thigh to let him bob free. She shushes his protests at the pace, gently pushes his fingers aside after long seconds of making sure she's ready for him, of adding enough lubrication to his length to make it easy for her to take. She grips the fabric covering his back as she lowers herself down to take him as deep as she can, to keep him cradled and loved and safe enough to lose the fight not to weep silently into the crook of her neck, to seep whatever comfort he can from the beat of her heart against his chest, no less tremulous and only slightly less frantic than his own. She shudders at the smoldering heat and the barest discomfort of the stretch as he slowly rocks them, more in an effort to soothe them than to bring them any adequate stimulation.

She wants to tell him not to cry; tell him she has already shed enough tears for what had happened, for the consequences she had to live with. For every single tragedy she'd come across on her path. She doesn't. A part of her revels in it. Not in his pain, never his pain. But in finally having someone care just as much as she does; she's too worn out and boneless to silence those voices.

She could try to synchronize their movements, do anything other than card through Ben's sweat-damp hair and change the angle of her hips to get the friction just right as he bucks his hips into her, the pressure on that spot behind her pubic bone just sweet enough to make her melt into his arms. She could grind against him until they're both reduced to sobs, until her sex stings, until each slick slide, so delicious and comforting at the start, begins to chafe at her nerves like nails against chalkboard. Until the frustration makes her throat raw with the screams that ache to leave it.

So, she lets herself focus on the only frustrations that won't contribute to breaking her; the one she feels when her legs grow numb, unpleasant pinpricks running up and down her thighs, but moving would mean pulling away from his warmth. The one she feels every time they can't get close enough, every time the insufferable properties of atoms their skin consists of prevent them from becoming one being – two hearts, thoughts interwoven like threads of a meticulously crafted tapestry.

It doesn't take long at all for him to fall apart inside her (he still apologizes, every single time), and while he does, she inspects his face for the most minuscule of details. Plush lips parted, the smallest crease between his eyebrows as his gaze searches for her own, frantic, as if he _needed_ her to keep him whole. The shudder of his chin as he lets out a broken, high-pitched moan, formed into the shape of her name. The skin of his neck and cheeks flushed red, so smooth and soft beneath her fingertips as she holds him steady and safe, traces the constellations of his beauty marks. His eyes gloss over and flutter shut as he gives himself over completely. All she can see is a thin sliver of chocolate brown falling into hazel. A pool of trust and contentment and oblivion.

He'll never get to see her like that. He'll never get to experience what it's like to be the only thing that holds her together, when all the pieces of her are too willing to drift off and scatter like stars. It doesn't make her cry.

Dissatisfied tension seizes her abdomen, one that makes her come close to pretending none of her previous experiences ever happened, makes her want to buck her hips as hard as she can until it dissipates and leaves her boneless. She fights to stay still, keeps his lips warm against her neck, away from where he asks to taste them both, just so she doesn't have to tell him to stop when she longs to have him keep going. It doesn't make her cry.

She keeps him inside her until he softens and she doesn't cry.

She doesn't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please, tell me I didn't ruin anybody's Christmas spirit. It's going to get much more optimistic from the next chapter on, I promise!)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/iridescentrey) for all the angst.
> 
> Comments are love! Please let me know if you enjoyed 💕

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! [Come say hi on Twitter](https://twitter.com/iridescentrey) if you enjoyed it!
> 
> [Check out my other works?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086126)


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